Callahan's Place 07 - Callahan's Legacy (v5.0) by Spider Robinson
Authors: Spider Robinson
Tags: Amazon.com
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our house brand, Mary’s Milk. It’s not Rickard’s Red, but it’s pretty good. As he took it, he noticed the closed guitar-case nearby on the bartop. “You have live music in here?”
I was caught without an answer. Fast Eddie, living up to his name, saved me. “Yeah,” he said from his piano stool, “but I’m it. De guitar guy’s like you: dis is his foist time here.”
Acayib nodded. He glanced at the handful of paper airplanes around the case, and clearly recognized them as currency. Perhaps he couldn’t make out the denomination, or more likely he just assumed they were gag money; he dismissed them from his attention and walked over to the chalk line I’d pointed out. I reached over the bar and tugged at Buck’s shirtsleeve. “Psst!”
“Yes, Jake?” he whispered back.
“I know we was havin’ fun here, but would you mind if we were to put your airplane-party on hold for a few minutes? I’d sure like to see if that fella feels like talking about his situation, and a million dollars goin’ by might just be too much distraction for him.”
He looked pained. “I’d like to hear his story just as much as you would, believe me. But there’s still a lot of money left in that case, and I won’t feel easy in my mind until it’s all nice harmless air pollution. Still—” He glanced up at the clock behind me—blinked as he realized for the first time that it was a counterclock, with retrograde motion—frowned, visibly refused to even try and interpret it, and glanced down at his own watch. “Oh hell,” he murmured, “it’s not even midnight yet. And if we run short of time, I guess there’s no law says they have to be airplanes. We could just make spitballs out of ’em; it’d go a lot faster that way. Yes, let’s get Acayib talking if we can. He seems to need to.”
I was liking Buck more by the minute.
Acayib had made four long sips of his beer, and taken three of them already there at the chalk line. When he saw he had my attention, he lifted his glass in salute to us, drained it in one long noisy gulp, said, “To pain,” and hurled the glass at the hearth.
It burst on the back wall, showering shards.
“To pain,” several people—most of us—chorused, and followed his example. Enough glasses hit the hearth at once to send little fluffy clumps of ash—thousands of dollars worth of it, probably—puffing out in all directions. (That fireplace is parabolically shaped so that it’s almost impossible to make broken glass spray out of it, but lighter-than-air objects with the wind behind them stand a fair chance of escape.) Without anyone asking them to, the nearest couple of patrons used the brooms standing nearby to sweep the fluff carefully back into the fireplace.
Acayib apparently took notice of that detail. When he got back to the bar, he said, “Jake, I’ve never been in a tavern where the customers helped clean up. I take back what I said before; you folks seem responsible enough to play with fire. If you want to go back to your game with the funny-money paper airplanes, go right ahead.”
“We will if you insist,” Buck said, “but we’d much rather shoot the shit with you.”
Acayib looked him over.
Buck sighed. “Look, Acayib…I only found this place myself about half an hour before you did—but one of the things I’ve learned already is their policy on privacy. I’m told that anybody who asks a snoopy question here is subject to be coldcocked…and I think they’re serious about it. But in your case, sir, I’m willing to risk it. I would imagine there’s probably no topic in your life as boring to you by now as Riley-Day Syndrome…but I’d be grateful if you’d be willing to talk about it some with us.” He flicked a glance at Fast Eddie. Eddie had not left his stool—but he was poised, a cat about to pounce, and one hand had drifted to his back
I was caught without an answer. Fast Eddie, living up to his name, saved me. “Yeah,” he said from his piano stool, “but I’m it. De guitar guy’s like you: dis is his foist time here.”
Acayib nodded. He glanced at the handful of paper airplanes around the case, and clearly recognized them as currency. Perhaps he couldn’t make out the denomination, or more likely he just assumed they were gag money; he dismissed them from his attention and walked over to the chalk line I’d pointed out. I reached over the bar and tugged at Buck’s shirtsleeve. “Psst!”
“Yes, Jake?” he whispered back.
“I know we was havin’ fun here, but would you mind if we were to put your airplane-party on hold for a few minutes? I’d sure like to see if that fella feels like talking about his situation, and a million dollars goin’ by might just be too much distraction for him.”
He looked pained. “I’d like to hear his story just as much as you would, believe me. But there’s still a lot of money left in that case, and I won’t feel easy in my mind until it’s all nice harmless air pollution. Still—” He glanced up at the clock behind me—blinked as he realized for the first time that it was a counterclock, with retrograde motion—frowned, visibly refused to even try and interpret it, and glanced down at his own watch. “Oh hell,” he murmured, “it’s not even midnight yet. And if we run short of time, I guess there’s no law says they have to be airplanes. We could just make spitballs out of ’em; it’d go a lot faster that way. Yes, let’s get Acayib talking if we can. He seems to need to.”
I was liking Buck more by the minute.
Acayib had made four long sips of his beer, and taken three of them already there at the chalk line. When he saw he had my attention, he lifted his glass in salute to us, drained it in one long noisy gulp, said, “To pain,” and hurled the glass at the hearth.
It burst on the back wall, showering shards.
“To pain,” several people—most of us—chorused, and followed his example. Enough glasses hit the hearth at once to send little fluffy clumps of ash—thousands of dollars worth of it, probably—puffing out in all directions. (That fireplace is parabolically shaped so that it’s almost impossible to make broken glass spray out of it, but lighter-than-air objects with the wind behind them stand a fair chance of escape.) Without anyone asking them to, the nearest couple of patrons used the brooms standing nearby to sweep the fluff carefully back into the fireplace.
Acayib apparently took notice of that detail. When he got back to the bar, he said, “Jake, I’ve never been in a tavern where the customers helped clean up. I take back what I said before; you folks seem responsible enough to play with fire. If you want to go back to your game with the funny-money paper airplanes, go right ahead.”
“We will if you insist,” Buck said, “but we’d much rather shoot the shit with you.”
Acayib looked him over.
Buck sighed. “Look, Acayib…I only found this place myself about half an hour before you did—but one of the things I’ve learned already is their policy on privacy. I’m told that anybody who asks a snoopy question here is subject to be coldcocked…and I think they’re serious about it. But in your case, sir, I’m willing to risk it. I would imagine there’s probably no topic in your life as boring to you by now as Riley-Day Syndrome…but I’d be grateful if you’d be willing to talk about it some with us.” He flicked a glance at Fast Eddie. Eddie had not left his stool—but he was poised, a cat about to pounce, and one hand had drifted to his back
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